A Matter of Personal Space
by xXCherryLicoriceXx
Summary: A steaming bowl of pasta with no one around to bother him. How could anyone possibly ruin Romano's good day? Implied Spamano


Hi guys! Been a while since I've posted anything… inspiration is such a hard thing to stumble upon. This is a small Hetalia fic, focused on Romano with hints of Spamano (though you don't have to read it that way). Me and yuu-chi were having a conversation on msn, sharing beautiful pictures and having a lovely discussion when we stumbled upon this one. It appeared that we got a little carried away with the circumstances and decided we would have a little competition and both write a small drabble based on the picture (of which there is a link at the bottom, so not to spoil anything).

This was written for your and my own amusement and you really don't need to take anything in here too seriously (though you can, if you want). I do not own Hetalia, it belongs to the glorious Himaruya, and I do not intend to make profit off of this piece of fiction.

If anyone else, after reading this and viewing the lovely picture, wishes to write their own interpretations on the events of this picture, please go ahead and give me a link to your lovely fanfiction! Constructive criticism is always appreciated as I don't write nearly as much as I should.

Please enjoy, and please read yuu-chi's version, titled Again? (not In the Closet, silly me)

**~Ra*Ra*Ra*a*ah*Roma*Roma*ma*no~**

Romano was sitting in his kitchen with a steaming bowl of fettuccine in front of him. He inhaled the scent of the pasta, the freshness of the ingredients making it smell utterly irresistible – all from his very own backyard. Most wouldn't pick Romano as the gardening type, but he prided himself on his cooking and the fact that he grew all of his ingredients. He wouldn't tolerate that 'supermarket' bullshit that was all the rage these passing decades. He was perfectly content making his meals from scratch. Unless, of course, the loud idiots that liked to hang around him decided to bug him all day and leave no time to cook his precious meals. Of course, then he would just force them to cook, sit down in _not-a-huff_-_damnit_ and criticise every stupid thing they did. He would only eat the best.

Ah, how long had it been since he had had a moment of peace to just sit down and eat some delicious pasta without those loud idiots running around and bothering him? Feliciano was a special case. He was a complete and utter idiot, sure, but he was the one idiot he didn't really mind putting up with. He was his brother, and he'd much rather Feliciano would bother him incessantly than hang out with that stupid potato bastard and his pervert of a brother. In fact, before even beginning his cooking his delectable dish, Romano made sure to ensure his brother was out shopping with Bella and Feliks and not that stupid potato. Something about someone stealing Feliks' favourite outfit of the week and thus causing them to go on some mass shopping spree to correct the wardrobe malfunction.

He didn't really care, to be honest. He trusted Feliks and Bella to look after his brother and keep him away from that potato bastard (or at least his brother) and that was all that mattered, anyways.

Then there was Spain. Even after all these years, that idiot still managed to bug him on a daily basis. Some days he'd wake up to that idiot's singing from his shower – _when did he even get here?_

Some days he would be flicking through the newspaper with his espresso, catching up with the news and seeing if his bosses (or brother or other idiot nations) had done anything particularly stupid or noteworthy when that idiot would prance – yes, _prance_ – in with his guitar and serenade him with his new composition on tomatoes –_okay I'm pretty damn sure I never gave that guy a key_.

Hell, some days he would just be sitting watching some stupid program on TV or listening to one of his Eros CDs (he would never admit to anyone, but he was a huge fan) he would casually look up only to see Spain there – _I didn't even HEAR him, how can I not hear that stupid tomato! HOW DOES HE KEEP DOING THAT?_

Without fail, Spain would manage to pop up in the most obscure places and bug him. He didn't know how he even managed it, but he did. Must be a Spanish thing. Spain had yet to pop up and it was nearing midday, so Romano had decided he may as well bask in the silence and make himself a well-deserved plate of pasta. And thus brings us to where Romano is now.

Releasing a contented sigh, Romano finally dug in. _Damn_, had he done a good job or what? The flavours blended miraculously together and it was all just so delicious that, without thinking, Romano spun his next spoonful a little too fast and splattered a big glob of vibrant red tomato sauce onto his shirt.

Cursing under his breath, both at the still rather hot temperature of the sauce and the new stain which was slowly marring one of his favourite tops in what seemed to be a permanent fashion, Romano quickly dashed to the laundry and put some warm water into a small bucket. He let his shirt soak while he grabbed a nearby towel and dabbed at his skin, which had gone slightly red at the hot sauce before looking around for another shirt. Shit, he had already done the washing yesterday, all of his clothes had been put away.

Pissed off about his disturbed meal and ruined shirt, Romano stomped a little more viciously than he would have normally done all the way up to his room – and he was _not _pouting, dammit! Taking quick strides to his wardrobe, Romano was quick to throw open the door in hopes of picking up the nearest and most convenient shirt and leaving just as hastily. Of course, things never went the way Romano would have liked them to.

There, sitting at the bottom of his closet, one of his shirts pressed tightly to his face, was the man he was just previously sneering over. After taking a big inhale, Spain merely looked up at him with wide eyes, as if beckoning him to join him, not a trace of guilt or surprise on his face.

Romano merely stared at the man before grabbing a shirt from a nearby shelf and slamming the wardrobe door shut and walking back down to his meal**. **His pasta and lovely rest-of-the-day was beckoning him and he wasn't going to let that idiot waste his time any further.

The Spaniard in the closet merely shrugged before continuing to rummage through the sour Italian's clothing – _ooh! I never knew Lovi kept those tomato boxers I bought for him! I wonder if he wears them…_

* * *

><p><em>Another quick note:<em>

**Eros** – Eros is a famous musician in Italy and all of my relatives fangirl over him. Yes, even the old ladies in their 50s and those men in their 30s. I personally am not a big fan of his voice, but his songs are good and he really is quite a popular Italian musician.

**Spun his spoonful** – I don't know about you guys, but I spin my spaghetti. Fettuccini is like a thin and flat type of spaghetti and basically you stab your fork and twirl it around in circles and eat. Though I assume most of you do that?

Based off the picture: i51,tinypic,com/xc50yu,png (please change the commas to full stops to view the picture)

And yes, I'm not 100% satisfied on the ending, so if any of you have any ideas I would love to hear them (or maybe you could write your own version)


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